


No Pain

by spire_cx



Series: Perfect, Imperfect [1]
Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spire_cx/pseuds/spire_cx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dongwoo and Hoya go to a place where they are allowed to be damaged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Pain

They have to be careful, or else they'll be seen.

It is best to assume there are fans around every corner. They are down every alley; they are beyond every window; they are in every shop and restaurant and cafe. They are cosmically patient and always waiting. They are a force of nature, an inevitability, unstoppable.

Stop them. It's funny, but Hoya doesn't think he would, even if he could. He almost laughs out loud at the thought.

Damaged, he thinks. So fucking damaged.

It's Wednesday night and late and dark. Their taxi was not followed and on foot they've only passed three people, but Hoya knows it is best to assume they are never alone.

He thought he would be more afraid: of being seen, of being caught, of what it meant to be afraid of being caught. He was afraid before. He'd been terrified when Dongwoo first asked, looking up at him from the tangled bedclothes and saying _I want_.

It's not so scary anymore, and Hoya's not sure what's happened since then to make it okay. Time, perhaps; and in time, acceptance?

They walk in silence through the city. It was raining earlier, and the final remnants of the storm now race across the sky, bends of feathered gray against a field of starry sable. On the sticky-wet asphalt their steps make muted sounds, faint footfalls above the songs of crickets whirring in gardens. This neighborhood is quiet and residential and superficially innocent, but Hoya knows better than to judge books by their covers.

Dongwoo is only halfway here. He walks with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his pace brisk and his gait stilted. At corners he purses his lips and searches for traffic and shifts from foot to foot when they have to wait. He looks at the sky and the sidewalk and the street signs, shoulders drawn up and shivering in the October night. He does not look at Hoya. He does not want Hoya watching him.

Hoya watches anyway.

He watches his eyes, darting. He watches his expression, wavering. He watches his brow furrowing deeper and deeper as he struggles against the rising tide of his unwanted and impotent anger. He watches him watch the sky and the sidewalk and the street signs, the anxious lines of his face painted in drastic light and deep shadow beneath the hood of his sweatshirt.

His quiet is unstable and ready to shatter. He's uneasy; he doesn't understand these between-places. He doesn't know who he should be out here, or who he belongs to.

Truthfully, Hoya doesn't either.

The walk is not long but it feels long. The shops they pass are silent and shuttered, the houses all dark. Hoya can't help but think about the families sleeping inside them, normal and complete: people who would never do the things they do; people who would never understand their needs; people who have seen them on television and would never be able to guess why they're here. He can't help but wonder what they'd do if he told them. Horrifyingly, he shivers in delight at the scenarios he conjures.

 _Damaged_.

The place is on a little hill: a low brick house with a flat roof, surrounded by ginkgo trees and a tall wooden fence. Between the slats Hoya can make out the glowing shape of a lit window, and his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. He feels suddenly nauseous: here they are, crossing another line, one he thought he had etched in stone but apparently had only drawn in dust. He wonders in distant, detached disgust if he has _any_ boundaries that couldn't be simply blown away.

They stop at the gate and stare at the house number and say nothing. There's a button glowing orange in the near-darkness; Dongwoo pushes it and the signal speeds silently away.

For a long moment, there's no answer. There's still time for something to go wrong. They might be refused entry. There may not be anyone home. Hoya looks at his watch. They're fifteen minutes early. There's still time to turn back.

The speaker crackles to life.

"Hello?" a man's voice answers.

"Hello?" Dongwoo says. He clears his throat. "I have an appointment at one. My name is Dongwoo, Jang Dongwoo."

The man does not respond. There's a muffled buzz; the gate unlatches. With one hand Hoya pushes it open, and it swings free into the garden beyond.

The crickets hold their song as Hoya steps inside, his shoes sliding in the wet carpet of golden ginkgo leaves across the concrete. He holds the gate open for Dongwoo and shuts it soundly behind them.

When he turns around Dongwoo is there, standing in the bare courtyard and staring at him, arms hanging useless at his sides. With a ragged sigh he reaches up and pulls off his hood.

Hoya watches as before his eyes all of Dongwoo's armor falls away, crumbling to pieces on the ground. His shoulders slump, his posture goes loose, his expression goes slack, and all of a sudden he's both half and ten times the man he was on the other side of the gate.

He's lit by the street lamps, warm and yellow, and like this he looks so plain, so lost, so imperfect, so stranger-on-the-subway-at-six-a.m. beautiful: dark and damaged and real and alive and _here_.

As he watches him, something begins to spread through Hoya's bloodstream, warm and tingling just under his skin. Awe, disbelief, regret, gratitude, fury, something like these things. Like lightning it crackles at the back of his head: the realization that perhaps this is what happened, between that first conversation and tonight. Time, acceptance, and him.

Water drips from the trees, fat, pregnant drops that splatter against the brim of Hoya's baseball cap. The crickets still are silent, and so is the city around them, and the only sound in the garden is the staccato patter of water across the courtyard.

"Howon," he says.

Hoya takes one half of one step and then Dongwoo's hands are in his jacket, bringing him close—he knocks the hat from Hoya's head, winds his fingers in his hair, and pulls him into a kiss.

Dongwoo tastes tart, sour with the aftertaste of lemon tea with too much sugar. The tip of his nose is cold against Hoya's cheek, and even his tongue is cool from the autumn air. He's kissing him hard and deep like he's saying goodbye or begging forgiveness, like this is the last thing he knows how to do and the only thing he knows how to say.

It is, in a way.

The kiss is forceful and desperate and messy and _good_ , satisfying like water flowing cool and lavender down Hoya's throat. Dongwoo always kisses with everything he has, like time is running out and every touch is a grasp in the dark.

Hoya has to push him off, two hands firm on his shoulders, and through his arms Hoya can feel him shaking. Dongwoo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Hoya doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth, swallows, realizes he tastes like Dongwoo's skin. He reaches out and puts a hand in the center of his chest. With his thumb he strokes lightly, back and forth, and Dongwoo shivers.

"Baby," Dongwoo whispers. It's only one word, but behind it Hoya knows there are ten thousand more he cannot say. In his voice there's devotion, understanding, and trust, years and years of it, trust like Hoya knows he's never deserved and never asked for and rarely wanted but always received all the same.

He feels his throat closing up.

"Come on," Hoya says. He moves away, shuddering from the sudden cold, and bends down to pick up his hat. When he turns toward the house Dongwoo follows him.

The man is waiting for them at the open door.


End file.
